You Left, I Stayed
by Cider Sky
Summary: Clint isn't dealing well, or, 5 times Clint realized things would never be ok, and the 1 time he thought they just might be.
1. 18 Seconds to Sunrise

You Left (I Stayed)  
by Cider Sky

* * *

Clint isn't dealing well, or, 5 times Clint realized things would never be ok, and the 1 time he thought they just might be.

* * *

When he feels the warmth of the morning sunlight on his face, streaming through the blinds, and feels the weight next to him, he sighs deeply, grateful for the peace.

It's the first time in a week that he's slept properly, meaning more than 2 hours at a time and without waking up in a cold sweat.

His mind is fuzzy, only half awake, so when he tries to remember just _why _he's been sleeping so terribly it doesn't come; it's there, floating in the back of his mind, somewhere, but he is all too aware of how euphorically comfortable he is, how relaxed his muscles are, how perfect the temperature is, and he decides to table it for now.

A small breeze filters into the room, moving gently across his bare chest and face; it feels incredible and refreshing and soothes the unusual burning in his eyelids.

There's something about the moment that feels so familiar; the breeze, the warmth. It's so much like déjà vu. Or would it be déjà senti? He hasn't even opened his eyes yet and already he knows …

The bed shifts, the mass next to him taking notice of his newfound consciousness; he always seemed to know the second he awoke.

He feels a ghostly caress, running down his bicep and stopping at his elbow and then the soft touch of lips against his own. He can feel the man smiling through the gesture before he pulls away.

"Good morning, Agent."

Clint breathes in, a response ready on his lips and the words that begin to form feel so familiar.

"Funny seeing you here." It's an old joke, worn and tired by now, but his brow furrows as he speaks the familiar words.

In just the manner his brain tells him it will happen, Phil exhales, exasperated by the old corny joke Clint refuses to put to rest and Clint sighs. He breathes in the fresh smelling air that is filtering through the cracked window; it's so he can't remember a time in which he felt more refreshed.

He pulls himself into a stretch; he aches, though he doesn't remember why. It still does him good, stretching his spine, his legs and arms, and he lets loose a contented groan.

He can feel the feather-light touch of Phil's lips

He doesn't open his eyes. Not yet. Instead, he speaks.

"Is this really happening, Phil?" He asks in a moment of complete vulnerability because God, how he wants reassurance, to know that he can and always will have this because everything else is chaos and bullshit and the past week – the past week has been too much – he can feel how empty he is, how _drained _he is; he doesn't remember why.

"Yes." He doesn't open his eyes yet, even though he wants so badly to see Phil's expression.

"How long will it last?" Clint asks; another moment of vulnerability. If he's learned anything in his somewhat fucked life, it's that _nothing_ lasts.

But – there's something about this, something inside him that is so hopeful _this_ might be different.

He's afraid of the answer but knows he shouldn't be because a hand wraps around his own.

"Forever, Clint."

Clint laughs at the corniness of it all.

"You didn't just say that." Clint chuckles as he wipes a hand across his face and there's that huff of exasperation again.

"Don't ruin it, Barton." Clint smiles as Phil's hand migrates upwards and he can feel fingers along his collarbone and up to his face, through his hair.

Only he can't feel it at all. Not really.

His stomach sinks as the veil of sleep is pulled softly from his mind and he slowly begins to realize that something is not quite right.

Clint moves his arm, reaching out towards the other side of the bed, the side that feels heavy – but does it? - with Phil's weight.

His arm lands, finds empty space; nothing but the furrows of the blanket, warmed by the sun. He bunches the fabric in his hand as sleep continues to disintegrate, his mind trying to remind him of something, his body stirring with anxiety of unknown origins.

"Clint." The voice is far away, now; sounds distorted and unusual.

He can fucking feel Phil runs his fingers through his hair, nails teasing his scalp and he know he is to open his eyes. He hasn't even done it yet, but he knows this.

His mind tells him that, when he does, he will be greeted by a pair of deep blue orbs edged by the beginnings of crow's feet, something Clint finds terribly attractive.

Only, when he finally does, when he opens his eyes, he doesn't see this.

He sees an empty side of the bed, cold from its non-occupation.

"Phil?" He sits up and realizes for the first time that the room is actually rather cold, that it's raining and the window is cracked.

The blinds bang uselessly against the sill and it's the only sound in the room, save for his now quickening breathing.

His throat tightens as he realizes what is happening.

A dream.

No. Not a dream; a memory. A memory he had held close to his being because when you grew up the way he had most memories were not worth saving and the ones that were, you held in a death grip and you knew them intimately.

He stares at the empty space beside him, eyes moving back and forth as he tries to remember the present; and it's _hard,_ the past is so much more comfortable.

It isn't warm, there is no sun – it's grey and humid, cold - and he certainly isn't sharing a bed with Phil Coulson. It isn't the morning after that first time - that first night in which they decided to stop dancing around each other, to stop pretending and get on with it.

Phil isn't there.

The dream, the memory, collapses and the events of the past week come flooding back, relentless and painful and he begins to breathe in short gasps, his throat constricting further as his eyes begin to burn.

Phil isn't there because Phil Coulson was killed exactly one week ago.

"No, no, no –" he whispers as though refusing to accept it will render it void.

He chokes as he arrives at full consciousness and hands rise to meet his face.

It had been nothing but a trick of the mind. A four-year-old memory brought to the surface by the cruel ministrations of shock and denial, neural synapses, coming down from Loki's mind-fuck and time spent in REM sleep.

A low hitched exhale bubbles past his lips followed by a moan and had he not felt the vibrations in his throat, the agonized sound sounded far and foreign and not like him at all.

His hands are shaking and he takes a moment to look at them wondering if this is real, hoping it is not.

The blinds continue to knock against the sill and it's enough to make him feel on edge; it splits the silence like a knife, enough to make him feel as though his eardrums are going to burst.

It is real.

He knows this because the room is in shades of gray and it no longer smells like Phil; the air is heavy and stagnant and dead, every corner is closing in on him.

His chest feels heavy; the constriction in his throat extending all the way down into his lungs making breathing feel like an absolute impossibility as his mind finally forms the truth.

Phil Coulson is dead and a week's worth of repression has done him no favors.

It comes back in a slow rush that he tries to will away, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as though he could extend his repression another week.

He can remember Natasha delivering the news and the way his body had become cold and empty, how he'd lost his entire stomach's contents into his bathroom sink.

He can remember the debriefing; can remember Fury pulling him aside and telling him that Phil's things would be returned to him once all the paperwork – the fucking _paperwork_ – was completed.

He remembers the concerned, confused, looks from Steve and Bruce. Remembers that Tony had been, still is, keeping tabs on him through Jarvis and that Thor suspects something.

They hadn't known, _couldn't_ have known, about him and Phil, because hell, they had never even seen them interact.

And really, he can't bring himself to explain it to them; he's hardly a part of the team as is, he reminds himself. He is fairly certain he's only here because they don't fully know what to do with him.

"Phil –" He manages, his voice hoarse, and there's a small part of him, an admittedly childish and desperate part, that hopes the words alone will be enough to rewrite the past.

But the world around him is still and unresponsive.

Now, there is nothing but the steady knocking of the blinds to keep him company.

A week of numbness gives way to grief and he feels like he's being torn apart, like everything he is, is collapsing, dissolving.

He inhales a ragged breath as his grip tightens around a wad of blanket. He curls in on himself, his knees extending upwards as the pain in his chest tightens. His eyes burn as they swell until their contents finally spill over, staining his hands, the blanket that no longer smells like Phil.

He wants so badly for Phil to come back; for a week he had told himself he could do this, that he could move on if he just worked harder, if he just lost himself in the initiative, but clearly, it hadn't worked.

He had thought he could avoid this pain; he had always been so good at avoiding.

He chokes and rubs furiously at the wetness on his face, shame rising to the surface along with anger and so much self hate.

He feels pathetic but can't stop the quiet plea that escapes his lips.

"_Please –_" there's so much more to it but he can't allow anything else past his faltering mental walls.

Internally, though, he begs for things to be different; begs for him to take Phil's place, begs to see him walk through that door, begs for this all to _stop._

But of course, it does not; can not.

No matter how hard he tries to bury himself, to get away from everything he's been avoiding since the Tesseract, Phil's voice still rings clearly in his mind.

"_Forever."_

Outside, the wind howls and the blinds continue to bang against the sill.


	2. Something in Your Words Linger

You Left (I Stayed)  
by Cider Sky

* * *

His voicemail is full.

He knows this because nearly every single one of his teammates has made a point to tell him. He knows he will have to delete some of the messages to make room for whatever important (or unimportant in Tony's case) news his team has for him but … he can't.

He never deleted the one's Phil had left for him, no matter how mundane, and now, well now they were there on his phone, mocking him, made of nothing but painful reminders.

And hell, it's turned into something unhealthy, something dangerous. He starts listening to them after a particular shitty mission. It had been intense and had landed nearly everyone in the infirmary and when he had awoken he had genuinely fucking _forgotten._

And that is _not_ okay.

Before he understands what he is really doing he's pulling up his voicemail, sweating like a fucking addict who needs a fix, and plays the first message in the queue.

'_Hey, just calling to remind you to sign the paperwork I filled out for you … shouldn't be too hard seeing as I did 99% of the work … ok, gotta go. Hand in the paperwork. Love you. PAPERWORK!'_

The sound of Phil's voice brings him back, levels him out, and before he can lose himself in an obsessive listening session he snaps the phone shut and takes a breath.

It tides him over for two days, though barely, and when he does it again it's after awaking from a particularly fucked nightmare.

He gasps, fumbles for the phone and listens.

'_Hey, sorry, what'd you want? HoHos or twinkies? If you don't call back within five minutes I'm getting snowballs.'_

Clint presses the 'next' button.

' – _I don't remember why I called … long day I guess. Well, can't wait to see you.'_

Next.

'_So, Fury's on my ass about that paperwork I'm pretty sure I told you about three days ago. You are so not getting any tonight.'_

Next.

' – _can't remember the name of the song. It goes something like nana nananana na – uhm – nan a …. It's stuck in my head. Anyway, thought you'd know."_

It had been something from the 90s. Something terrible. Clint can't remember.

Next.

'_Call me.'_

That had been about a fight, he's sure of it, he can hear it in the other man's tone. Seems like a good place to stop and it takes far more courage than it should to snap the phone shut.

Phil's voice is still clear in his head when he finally falls asleep.

* * *

It doesn't take long for the others to notice. He's started bringing the damn thing on missions with him and hell, he knows it's a risk, but he's _that_ fucking desperate.

Another mission ends and it's all good and triumphant and the others seem pleased as pie but when they all get onto the noisy transport he's dialing in his password and thrusting the thing up to his ear.

He keeps his expression tight and controlled and though his stoic façade might be holding up for the time being, his behavior is raising eyebrows.

" – _soy latte … no, no thanks … yeah –" _a pocket dial, Clint doesn't know why he saved but still, he listens.

Next.

"The old crackberry lives to see another day, I see." Clint glances up from his phone, up at Tony whose expression is half mocking half … something else.

"So says the man who talks to his robot manservant during battle –" Clint murmurs, trying to keep up with Tony's snark because as long as he plays back they'll think everything's fine, that they'll leave him be.

"JARVIS is _not_ my manservant, that's Steve's job." Clint looks up because, honestly, it'd hard to resist watching Steve turn _that_ particular shade of red.

"What is this crack-berry and whence do they grow?" Thor interrupts, loud and curious and Clint is grateful; this isn't the first time the Asgardian has saved him from Starks nosy line of questioning, "I have not yet seen such a berry at the Wholesome Foods Market. Is it rare? WE MUST TRY SOME!"

Tony jumps into a long tirade about slang and how blackberries are less superior in comparison to the StarkPhone and how he is terribly wounded that the archer decided to betray him in such a manner …

But Clint isn't listening. He tucks the phone safely into his vest and, when he closes his eyes, it feels a lot like Phil's hand on his chest.

* * *

"_Hey, I have a couple of hours before the meeting with Fury, so, I was thinking, well … just get your ass over here."_

That's Clint's favorite.

That had been a _good_ day.

"Should I be worried." Natasha looks at him with that pointed look that suggests she may be a telepath.

"About what?" He asks innocently but doesn't smile; he hasn't quite figured out how to get that particular ability back yet.

She gives him a 'do-i-look-stupid' look and nods down at the phone in his hand.

"I'm waiting for a call." Natasha raises a brow and Clint can't believe he couldn't muster a better lie. It was hard when you didn't really care.

"Clint –"

"I'm fine, Tasha. Really."

Fuck. He really isn't.

* * *

" – _but I love you, you stupid idiot."_

His second favorite.

But only because the first half had been two full minutes of a dressing down that put Fury to shame.

* * *

The second and third and fourth mission go as planned so reason stands the fifth will be a shining example of success.

It is.

There are no casualties, few injuries – just scrapes and bruises – and the property damage is stunningly minimal.

But then Clint reaches for his phone and finds empty space.

It's gone. It's fucking gone.

Clint's stomach drops and he turns on his heel, heading back to where he had been perched.

"Where are you going?" Natasha asks as she drops into step with him but he hardly hears her.

"Clint. Stop." She puts a hand on his shoulder and it's firm and unyielding.

The others are looking at them, all wearing identical expressions of confusion.

"что случилось." _What's wrong?_

"My phone, Nat. I dropped my phone." There's a sharp drop in her brow, her expression hard and concerned.

"Clint, it could be anywhere." Clint can appreciate that she's always been the voice of reason in his life but he really doesn't want to hear it right now because the rubble that looked so minimal and manageable before now looks daunting and impossible.

"Tasha." His tone, the look in his eyes; she knew what he was really saying was 'please'.

They look for fifteen minutes, much to the annoyance of Tony who cannot for the life of him understand why he was freaking the fuck out about a phone.

"I'm telling you, the StarkPhone is unparalleled. You will be amazed. AMAZED. You won't miss that old fossil, buddy, I promise. It even comes in purple. You like purple, don't you?"

Steve, unlike the still babbling Tony, eventually senses that something's going on and moves forward to help.

They pick through the broken concrete and shattered glass.

They don't find it.

* * *

Three days later a StarkPhone appears in front of his door.

It's about the same time Clint starts to think he's forgetting what Phil Coulson's voice sounded like.


	3. To Those Who Wait

You Left (I Stayed)  
by Cider Sky

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who followed, favorited and a special thanks to those who reviewed. Your feedback means more to me than I can say. I am sorry this is such an angst-train, but hey, not everything can be glitter and peaches.

Thank you for reading!

* * *

**Part Three:** To Those Who Wait

"Clint."

The voice pulls him out of his reverie and he blinks.

But reverie isn't the right word for it. He'd been flat out staring at the blank screen of the TV for … who knows how long.

He'd been doing that a lot lately.

"This came for you." Steve says, scrubbing a towel over his wet hair as he tosses a parcel into Clint's lap. Clint fixes him with a confused glance but the man just gives an unknowing shrug as he drops onto the opposite side of the couch Clint is occupying.

"This isn't mine." Clint mumbles turning the thing over in his hands and Steve can only cock a brow.

"Well, are you sure?" Steve leans over, his interest genuine and not at all sarcastic. "I could have misread it –"

The archer highly doubts the Captain could have misread it but Steve humors him and hell, if the man weren't a fucking saint.

Clint eyes the small brown package, somewhat baffled by it's presence. It's small, shaped like a lengthy book, or a large DVD set perhaps but beyond that, he has no idea what it could be.

He checks the label and sure enough it's addressed to him.

**Ship TO: ****Clint Barton**

**1821 Front ST**

**BROOKLYN, NY, 11222**

**FORWARDED TO:**

** Stark Tower**

** 2801 WEST 116****th**** ST**

** NEW YORK, NY 10018**

** UPS NEXT DAY**

"You don't remember ordering it?" Steve asks, gently, as he runs a hand through his still damp hair.

Clint furrows his brow. Next day. Unless he's experienced a serious lapse in his memory, he's fairly confident he hadn't ordered anything the day before. Hell, he hasn't bought anything for himself outside the stray arm-guard in years.

But here it is.

"No." Clint murmurs trying to ignore the fact that Steve may be on the verge of donning his kid-gloves.

He takes another moment to ponder where the hell it had come from, what it could be – he hadn't bought anything in _weeks_ - before tearing it open.

A rectangular object cloaked in plastic falls into his lap and Clint tosses the cardboard packaging aside.

Clint's stomach drops, a terribly sinking feeling setting in as he remembers.

_It was no secret that Phil Coulson was a bit of a nerd. The man adored everything related to superheroes – most notably Captain America but __**that**__ was just common knowledge – and if it weren't for Clint's gentle insistence that they put at least some of the memorabilia away, their apartment would have screamed 'stalker'._

_Also, it made sex extremely creepy._

_But it was part of Phil's charm. His almost boyish belief in superheroes and the prevailing of good over evil was refreshing, especially since Clint himself had stopped believing in those sorts of things at the ripe age of seven._

_So, despite the fact that the archer had initially been trying his best to stem the growth of Phil's near obsessive collection, when Clint heard about the future release of the autographed 'Captain America Compendium:', valued at $500.00 - boasting the inclusion of every comic ever published, full sized posters, exclusive interviews and never before released DVD documenting the man's life - and with only one thousand copies being released, Clint rushed to the nearest computer (Agent Hill's – he all but hip checked her out of the chair) and made the purchase._

_The Compendium had sold out within five minutes and Clint felt obnoxiously proud, especially when Phil mentioned it that night over Chinese, mourning the fact that he had been in a meeting when the sale had gone live._

_ "We'll find one on eBay, babe." Clint had said, barely able to contain himself._

_The estimated release date for the Compendium was for August 2012, which meant he only had to keep Phil from getting his hands on a pre-order for four measly months._

_He couldn't wait._

Clint stares down at the weighty book and the large, star shaped sticker that exclaimed 'Only One Thousand Published!' and underneath that, in marker, a hand written '320/1000'.

Steve shifts next to him and Clint's positive the man is blushing.

"Oh –" Steve says awkwardly and Clint almost feels for him because they had chosen a rather impressive picture of the man. Book-cover Steve gazes off into the top left corner and he looks almost God-like; it's an inspiring image but Clint knows Steve hates it, knows that he is far to humble to accept such a representation of himself.

"I – uh, remember signing these. I hated the cover work. It's so –" Steve drops off but Clint doesn't press him; he's only half listening as he thumbs the edges.

They sit in silence for a moment and it's clear that Steve is about to make his move to leave when, out of nowhere, Clint feels the urge to tell him.

"It was for Phil." He hadn't intended for it to come out in a strangled half whisper, but that's exactly what happens.

Clint takes a deep breath turning the book over in his hands.

"It was going to be a surprise, you know." Clint smiles and surprises himself – and Steve, no doubt - when he chokes out a laugh.

"He had a meeting the day it went on sale. You should've seen him. He looked like a kicked puppy."

Clint finally looks up at Steve and finds a sad smile on his face, all traces of awkwardness and embarrassment having vanished.

"You want to watch the documentary?" Clint quirks an eyebrow and it sets Steve into a self-conscious stutter.

"It's funny." Steve blurts in an attempt to explain himself. "It wasn't supposed to be but I, I was never good in front of an audience, not in the beginning at least, and a lot of it's really … corny."

God, Clint thinks, Phil really should be here for this.

"I can tell you about all the awkwardness that was going on behind the scenes. They made me look much better than I was."

Clint gives him a small smile and highly doubts it, though he doesn't say so.

"Thanks, but maybe later." Clint feels bad about rejecting the other man's offer but it doesn't seem at all fair because Phil …

Phil would have loved this. This was supposed to be Phil sitting here with his fucking idol offering to watch his own biography whilst give him a private commentary.

Steve just nods, his friendly countenance not fading for even a second.

"Sure."

Steve gives him another kind smile before standing, off to go do whatever Captain America does in his time off, but stops, his gaze growing soft and thoughtful.

"You two were very close." It's half a question, half a statement and Clint is certain the man has no idea how much of an understatement that is.

_Try married._ He wants to say. _He was everything to me._

But Clint doesn't really feel like explaining their relationship. It was impossible to try to explain what he had had with Phil. It was impossible to explain just how empty he was now.

So he just says, 'yeah'.

Steve nods and then he's gone leaving Clint to imagine how differently this could have gone.

* * *

Clint puts it in the drawer with all the other things that once belonged to Phil. He tucks it neatly next to his bloodied Captain America cards and his old dog tags, on top of the various postcards Phil had sent him when they were apart too long, most of them blank save for a small, terribly drawn heart.

He never removes the plastic or reads the book or watches the DVD. He doesn't even peel off the huge, gaudy sticker that is already peeling at one of its edges.

He knows Phil's gone but he keeps it pristine, unopened, just in case.


	4. In Case of Emergency Call Bruce Banner

You Left, I Stayed  
by Cider Sky

* * *

A/N: Thank you to everyone you followed, alerted, favorites and, of course, reviewed. This story is coming from a kind of painful part of my own experiences with death so I am glad to hear that is seems authentic, albeit a bit of a downer.

Again, I can't thank you enough and I hope you enjoy this next chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Four: **In Case of Emergency (Call Bruce Banner)

It's their six-year anniversary and he needs to drink. No. He needs to get absolutely wasted.

He knows it's an immature response; a stupid and pathetic response but sometimes a man needed stupid. Sometimes the stupid thing is the right thing.

Phil had told him that once, after getting shot saving his worthless hide.

Clint feels ashamed that he's bastardizing the man's words, twisting them into an excuse for something ugly but God, he can't face this sober.

And he really doesn't want to drink alone.

Drinking alone is what brings stupid into the realms of pathetic and he really doesn't want to be _that_ guy at the bar.

What he wants is to talk, as hard as that is to admit, and experience has taught him that he is looser with his words when he's had a few.

More specifically he wants to talk to Natasha.

And she's been waiting for it, waiting on the outskirts of his pain and agony though she too is suffering. She's been waiting for something to break within him, not out of malice or cruelty, but because it is their way. One could only fix something after it had broken, after all.

She's never pushed or pestered him. She doesn't try to get him to talk about feelings and doesn't ask about the SHIELD mandated therapy sessions. She doesn't ask about what he's done with his ring, the one that used to hang on a chain around his neck but now feels so heavy that he's sure it's going to push through his skin.

She's been waiting so damn patiently but, as luck would have it, and he's never been a particularly lucky man, she is not here.

Clint grabs one of his many wallets, all filled with a different version of himself, and heads towards his window.

He uses the window because leaving by any other route would mean having to explain himself.

He's found it's hard to explain the reasoning for seeking the means of your own destruction.

* * *

He goes to a bar in Mott Haven. And Morisania. And South Bronx.

He drinks and worse, he fights.

He gets thrown out of the first two and leaves on his own accord for the three that follow.

By one thirty he's in Soundview.

He drinks.

He fights.

It's not even an incendiary comment that gets his fists swinging, and he knows this, even as he stands up and shoves the man hard against the chest, the man who is raven-haired and resembles Loki only because he wants him to.

He knows this is what he was really looking for, that if he couldn't talk then well, he was going to fight.

No one fights with him. All they see is a madman provoked by _nothing_, not a man who might be worthy of an ally.

Good, Clint thinks, as he absorbs a punch to his abdomen and allows the douchebag with the backwards Kanji tattoo to land that wild swing to his jaw.

He takes each man on, allowing a few hits here and there, but eventually, they all fall, until one doesn't.

This one has a knife.

* * *

Clint dreams.

_"You're being stupid, Clint."_

_"Sometimes being stupid is right thing to be."_

_"Don't do this. This isn't what I want."_

_"It's not what I want either, but hey, you know what they say about that. You can't always get it."_

_…._

_"You're being selfish. This isn't you."_

_"It __**is **__me. This is me without you. Get used to it."_

_"You're not the only one who has lost someone, Clint."_

_"Yeah. Yeah, but they didn't lose you."_

Clint wakes up to a high-pitched, rhythmic beeping and he immediately knows he's in a hospital.

The beeping isn't the sound of his heart, it's someone else's, someone from the room next to him. Save for the nasal cannula and it's constant, irritating flow of oxygen, and the pinch of the IV in his arm, he's unattached.

Which means escaping will be easy.

He ignores the pull of stitches in his arm and the throbbing in his temple – ah, yes, that's what had taken him down, a fucking pool queue to the temple post slice to his bicep– and tosses the cannula aside, his attention already on that pesky IV.

"Mr. Coulton?" Clint halts his attempts of ripping the IV out of his arm. "I'm Patti, your nurse."

Coulton? Right. He' hadn't been looking when he had grabbed for one of his many aliases and covers. This was the one he had created using his and Phil's surnames. He had thought it terribly clever. Phil had thought it terribly cliché.

Cliché it might have been, but it was truly a work of art. Coulton has impressive academic credentials, a respectable job and is as a straight shooter.

He couldn't have chosen a more inappropriate alias for his outing and a small part of him feels like he has betrayed Clint Coulton.

Clint turns towards the timid voice; a young, doe-eyed nurse is watching him with trepidation, too green to know how to handle a possibly uncooperative patient.

"We tried contacting your emergency contact, a Mr –" Patti flips through the paperwork as Clint's groggy head tries to block out that incessant beeping from the room over, "Mr. Phil Coulson, but we were unable to reach him."

They, Phil and himself, had worked hard on Clint Coulton, hammering every detail out until it was perfect and _legal_; there was nary a hole to be found.

So, really, he shouldn't be so surprised that Phil hadn't overlooked his medical history, much less an emergency contact.

His mouth suddenly feels very dry and he can't really speak because the idea of reaching Phil now was laughable. She was trying to hunt down a ghost.

"Is there another number we can try?" She clicks her pen and waits.

He swallows back a wave of nausea; it's kind of ironic. He had gotten shit-faced just to avoid all those little reminders and here was this stranger, asking him about Phil.

Patti gives him that gentle, almost hesitant smile all medical personnel seem capable of and he knows it's meant to be comforting but she was picking at an extremely poorly healing wound.

"It's okay." She says and for a moment Clint feels a stab of anger, how could she possibly say that? She didn't know a fucking thing about him and - "It's common for patients to suffer a lapse in memory after a concussion."

_Oh._ The anger dissipates and wow, this isn't him. He had never been quick to anger. She looks nervous and he realizes he might be glaring at her a little bit and fuck, Phil would _hate_ who he is turning into.

Now she's eyeing the bruises and the thick bandage around his arm and she is no doubt trying to fight the urge to make negative judgments. Judgments that were probably fucking true to begin with,.

"We can always have an officer visit the address listed in … Brooklyn? When we can't reach a patient's family –"

"No." Clint says, a little to quickly and the Patti's brows shoot up, probably worried she had said something wrong.

Clint clears his throat and rattles off a phone number and Patti gives him another winning smile. He hates her for it.

He watches her scribble it down.

**_(718) 670 – 0422._**

"Great." She smiles again and she just stands there for a second and he can see it in her eyes and the way she's shifting side to side, she's going to try – "Don't worry. He'll come. I'm sure."

He ignores her when she asks if he needs anything else.

* * *

Patti dials the number and picks at the sleeve of her cerulean scrubs feeling quite accomplished.

She feels as though she had made the connection with the patient, had showed him that she cares, that she is patient and to be trusted. It's only her fifth week but she feels like she's getting the hang of this. She really doesn't understand why the other nurses were so suspicious of some of their patients, why they constantly warned her about this bed and that bed. Patients needed to be trusted –

"Phil's Pizza. Delivery or Take-Out?" The other voice replies, snapping her out her feel-good thoughts and throwing her right back into reality.

She hangs up and hurries down the hall. She pushes the curtain back but it's too late.

He's gone.

* * *

Clint does his best to not stumble through the halls as he picks past the nurses and doctors and patients. They don't spare him a second glance and he's nearly home free when he spots a figure in the lobby, a figure that's staring right at back him and for a moment, Clint's too shocked to move

So, Bruce Banner comes to him instead.

* * *

They sit there on a bench outside the hospital, watching as a flurry of paramedics and EMTs and patients come in and out.

They sit in silence, side by side, and Clint's a little amazed over how okay Bruce seems to be with doing and saying nothing, sitting outside of some community hospital in the Bronx at three in the damned morning.

Surely he should be sleeping or doing science or something.

Clint huffs in small disbelief, shaking his head because of all the people to come looking for him.

"How'd you find me?"

"Natasha told me to –" Bruce gives him a sidelong glance and Clint knows just from that that he's probably not going to like what comes next, " – to keep an eye on you."

Clint doesn't know what had happened between the two, mainly because he had been too busy being mind fucked, but it's clear that they had formed some kind of relationship.

He wasn't sure it was a matter of like as it was difficult for Natasha to like anyone, really. No, not yet at least. It was more likely a matter of respect, a matter of understanding that Bruce could crush any of them at a moment's notice.

It still didn't really explain why he's here or why she'd entrusted such a task to him.

"That doesn't really answer my question, doc."

Bruce exhales and he almost sounds amused.

"Well, just for future reference, your floors directly above mine," Clint's still not sure where he's going with this and his body is choosing now to inform him just how unhappy it is, " - it's not everyday I see people propelling past my window."

Oh. Right. He probably should have checked just who's windows he's be passing on his way down but he hadn't really been thinking.

"So, you followed me here?" Clint asks, a little surprised because Bruce, when he isn't the Hulk, just seems so … normal. Not at all the kind to go off following people into the heart of the Bronx.

"I wouldn't say that, really. I lost you as soon as you got to the Bronx. Following people is not my strong suit. I'm better at avoiding them." There's something disarming in Bruce's voice and the way he only half smiles. There's nothing patronizing or deceptive in his words, he doesn't try to make an excuse for himself; he just tells it the way it is.

"Oh." Okay. "But how'd you –"

"I followed the heresay."

"Yeah, and what was the heresay."

"That some guy was going bar to bar picking fights and beating people to a pulp."

"Sounds about right." Clint admits because yeah, that's exactly what had happened, exactly what he had wanted to happen.

He hadn't wanted anyone to get involved, though. He may not regret the bruises, the concussion and the laceration in his bicep but he certainly regrets getting Bruce involved.

Which leads him to the question that is still burning in the back of his mind.

"Why did Natasha ask _you?" _He doesn't mean for it to be as filled with venom as it is but Bruce doesn't seem to notice or care.

Bruce doesn't answer right away; instead he takes a moment to look at his hands, at the people moving around them, and it looks as though he's mulling over the best way to answer him.

"I know." Bruce says simply and it's extremely disappointing because it makes no damn sense. Clint only has to wait another second before Bruce clarifies, clearly reading the archer's impatience. "I know about you and Phil."

Clint takes a moment to digest the information.

"Did Natasha –" Clint starts, the stabbing pain of betrayal already welling up inside him.

"No." The easy sincerity and kindness in his eyes is as good as any lie detector. He's telling the truth and Clint is relieved.

"No, I figured it out on my own." Bruce's voice dips and he almost sounds forlorn.

Clint suddenly feels as though his defenses have been ripped away, as though Bruce can see through all the bullshit and into his goddamn soul.

Bruce looks away.

"You could have told us, Clint."

Clint doesn't know what to say to that. There hadn't been a single moment after Phil's death in which Clint had felt it would have been appropriate to share that part of him.

They had hardly known him then. In fact, his first impression probably couldn't have been any worse.

"Told you what?" Clint spits out; any relief his impromptu fighting had provided is leaking away. It's turning into exhaustion and it's letting all the anger and resentment back in, all that anger and resentment he had fought out of himself.

"Told you that Phil was my _husband _and that I am the reason he's dead? That I fucking _killed_ my husband? Is that what I should've told you?"

A few people turn to look at them on their way into the hospital but Clint doesn't care.

"Should I have told you that everything, every goddamn _thing_ reminds me of him and that I can barely fucking think anymore?"

Bruce's expression doesn't change; he doesn't seem upset or insulted, he doesn't try to placate him or calm him down. He just listens, even despite the fact that he is making an absolute scene right now.

He feels broken, so goddamn broken that he doesn't even remember what living is. Something inside him just _snaps_

"Tell me, Banner, what _exactly _should I have told you?"

Bruce's answer is not what Clint expects.

"We care about you, Clint." To Clint's addled mind this has no preface and it almost feels like a struggle to keep. "I'm not going to say you should have told us everything about you and Phil, that's your business, but, you should have told us you were suffering."

God, he knows he's right, knows what Bruce is saying is perfectly logical but he just can't accept it. Nothing is getting past the anger brewing inside him. He knows he should be damn grateful; that Bruce isn't the kind to go into densely populated areas, that this is probably hell for him but fuck. He's not thinking straight.

"And then what? We all talk about my feelings and hug it out?" Clint's gaze hardens but his voice cracks and it's not completely effective or threatening.

"You shouldn't have come out here, Banner." He's sick of this, all of it, and as soon as the vile words are out of his mouth he gets to his feet.

He hears Bruce falling in step behind him and really, it would've been too generous a mercy for the man to just back off.

"Listen. You're angry, I get it. I know anger." It's Bruce's turn to raise his voice. "But what happened happened and you can't change that."

"You think I don-" Clint turns on his heel, ignoring the way his entire body protested against the quick movement; he was going horrendously sore for the next few days.

"No. I'm not saying that." Bruce interjects, unforgiving with his tone and it's clear that maybe, he's had enough of the archer's torrid affair with self-resentment.

"I know what self-destruction looks like. Clint. It's a dark, lonely road. I've been there." Clint swears he can see a flash of green I the man's eyes

"And I'm not going to pretend to know what Phil would want for you, but I can tell you what I want."

Clint meets the man's unwavering gaze.

"And it is _not_ this." Each word is perfectly annunciated, clear and precise, intended to cut through him like a knife.

Clint's first thought is that Phil would have liked Bruce had he gotten the chance to get to know him. His second is far darker.

"What if it's what I want?" For the first time since their rather tumultuous conversation began, Bruce's expression drops, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly as he nods, puling his hands together in a way that made him look much more the unassuming scientist he was used to.

* * *

Bruce looks down for a second, one fucking second, to collect his thoughts.

"It's no–" When he looks back up Clint is gone.

He's not surprised.

Bruce looks around for a moment, taking in the crunch of glass and gravel under his shoes and the din of a tired city, and hails a cab.

* * *

Bruce doesn't see Clint until their next mission, a full week later.

Fresh bruises peek out from under his uniform and he feels like a failure.

* * *

I promise, it gets better in the last chapter. One more angst!fest to go guys, I swear. Thanks for sticking with me.


	5. Once More Into the Fray

You Left, I Stayed  
By Cider Sky

* * *

A/N: I am eternally sorry for the long wait - I have been horrendously busy and had moments of writer's block. I have always been envious of prolific writers; I often struggle with regular updates and for that I apologize.

Here is the last part of the angst part of our angst fest. Seriously, how did anyone read this at all?

Also, the poem comes from the film 'The Grey'; I believe it was written for the film. Either way, not mine.

* * *

**Chapter Five:** Once More Into the Fray

Bruises fade away, the angry wounds that once marred his skin heal and physically he is whole again. Mentally, however, he is more broken than ever because slowly, painfully, the anger melts away and in its place rests a cold, stony numbness.

Anger was the last thing he had and now it too has left him and he feels a lot like an empty shell.

It's this complete lack of feeling that has him standing dumbly over his armoire, staring at the open drawer; it's nearly full now. Full of things that belonged to Phil, things that reminded him of Phil, things that he'd buried away so he could forget: books, his iPod, Phil's hoodie, their rings, Phil's dog tags, that stupid Captain America Special Edition Box Set -

- and now the book he holds in his hands.

"_Once more into the fray, into the last good fight I'll ever know –"_

_Phil loves poetry. Even more so, Phil loves to read poetry out loud to him._

_Even though Clint has never been one for literature or the prose his husband adores, listening to Phil's gentle cadence as he recites the words – words that seem to flow like honey, but only when **he** reads them – brings him to a state of relaxation that borders on meditation._

_No more than two lines in and his eyes are blinking sluggishly closed as words far gentler, far more beautiful than he deserves wash over him._

"_- live and die on this day –"_

_Phil's free hand, the one not clutching the tattered old book, rakes through his hair, careful to avoid the stitches at his hairline. Clint sighs as his head sinks deeper against Phil's thigh._

_Clint sighs and he can't imagine anywhere else he'd rather be._

"_- live and die on this day."_

He had wondered where it had gone. No, more than wonder, he had nearly lost it, had literally torn their old apartment apart looking for it. He didn't know how but it had simply gone missing, until this morning that is.

Natasha had been the one to recover it and had delivered it to him with an urgency ill fitting of the situation, or at least so he thought.

"_Where was it?" He croaks because beside himself, Natasha was the only one who knew of their once handler's love for poetry; Phil had read to her, once or twice, and though she hadn't showed it, she had enjoyed it._

"_Agent Hill had it. I saw her reading it. He mast have lent it to her." He knows that she intends to end the sentence with 'before he died' but he knows for his sake she doesn't_

_He also knows, for his sake, that she had most likely snatched it from the woman's grasp with a glare, all venom, and little explanation._

It was a testament to how terribly he was coping, how poorly the façade was holding.

It's almost everything he owns, he realizes, as he looks around the room. If it weren't for the bow lying on the end of his bed or the water glass next to the table, it would seem unoccupied.

It was only when he'd moved out of their apartment and into Stark tower that he realized how much of him had actually been Phil.

Without Phil the walls were barren and bland. Without Phil the room suffered a militaristic simplicity, boring and utilitarian. Without Phil, there was no music because, apparently, Phil was the one who always turned it on and now every damn song reminded him of the man.

Without Phil, he realizes, it has dwindled down to a bow and a fucking glass at his bedside.

Simply put, without Phil, he has been reduced to nearly nothing. He draws a thumb across the books old cover and it conjures up images of Phil asleep, the book open on his chest. He looks at the pages, pressed together, small gaps creating dark spots – pages Phil had bookmarked.

Phil's poetry books were always dog-eared; the man absolutely refused bookmarks. It hadn't taken Clint too long to figure out that Phil wasn't bookmarking his personal preferences, but that of the archer's.

Clint doesn't want to looks inside but is thumb is already peeling back a page, one of the dog-eared ones. Immediately his eyes are drawn to the last sentence, the short four-line poem standing out on the ivory page.

**Live and die on this day …**

Clint snaps the book shut and puts it back where it belongs, back with what's left of Phil.

* * *

Eventually, they all manage to corner him one-on-one.

Bruce looks for bruises, his eyes boring through him, assessing him and no doubt worrying over every little thing he sees. He talks about anger again and Clint assures him he's done with that. He's not angry anymore, he says, and it's true. He's not angry He's just nothing. He could tell Bruce this, but he doesn't.

Thor tells him a lengthy tale of a warrior, mighty in heart and spirit, that was forced to do terrible things under a thrall similar to the one he had suffered. It's an interesting story and Clint appreciates what Thor is trying to do but this isn't about the thrall or Loki. It's about Phil. Regardless, he listens and thanks Thor when he finishes.

Steve tries to get him to work out with him, to go to lunch with him, to hang out with him … Steve tries hard, a little too hard, and the man realizes, a little too late, that it's only pushing the archer away. When Steve corners him and asks him if he's fit for the team – he's pulling _those_ cards, then– Clint straightens his back and tells him that yes, he is, _Captain._ Steve looks guilty and Clint tells him not to worry about it when he apologizes.

Tony tells him to buck up, to stop moping around and really, though harsh, it's better than the child gloves Steve has been handling him with or the frustrated sympathy Bruce has been exuding. Tony accuses him of running away and calls him a pussy – he knows the man wants to get a rise out of him but he gets lost in the thought of running away. He wishes he had somewhere to run to. Running sounded wonderful.

Tony sicks Pepper on him, which isn't really fair, and he smiles at her. She says something about a cellist in Oregon, her voice soft and oh so gentle, and he excuses himself, the false smile slipping from place.

Natasha slaps him and he's never seen her look so hurt.

"Don't do this, Clint." She's lost someone too. Clint knows this but it's as though all rational thought has left him and all he has now is his grief. "Please."

He's never heard that word leave her lips outside of an undercover mission. Nastasha did not beg. Natasha did not say please.

The word alone tears at him and it's more than he's felt for a long while.

"I'm fine." It's empty, hollow, dead; he can see it tearing her apart because though he still does his job, though he has everyone outside of the avengers fooled, he is so utterly broken and for the first time in their entire, wonderful history together, she doesn't know what to do.

He moves to turn away and when she grabs his wrist, firm and unforgiving, he pulls away, throwing both hands up and Natasha feels as though she's been stung.

"Natasha, just –" he shakes his head and tries to avoid her gaze, full of hurt, "leave it. Just – stop."

* * *

He makes himself scarce after that.

He takes every mission Fury has to offer, even the ones no one wants because it keeps him away, keeps him isolated.

When he's not on a mission he's cleaning his bow, cataloguing his weapons, dragging himself through brutal exercise regimens, doing fucking _paperwork_ – it's a blur of detail oriented tasks, all of which are supposed to make him forget but fucking _don't_.

His eyes manage to pick out pieces of Phil's poems everywhere and he wonders if they've been there all along, hidden in the mess of mind-numbing bullshit that was SHIELD's paperwork, but then again, maybe that was the big secret to Phil's love for paperwork.

Or maybe he's just losing it.

Either way, nothing works.

Often enough, he calls it a day and sleeps.

* * *

But he can't sleep.

Minutes bleed into hours and hours into days. Sometimes he thinks he's dreaming but he isn't because when he dreams Phil is there and he hasn't seen Phil in a very long time.

He can't sleep but this is nothing new; he once stayed awake 92-hours on a mission in Karachi. He knows how to deal with it, the ache in his body, his eyes, the trembling of his hands – he knows that when the world turns and everything cracks and shimmers and wobbles that it's all in his head and he needs to sit down, to eat something.

Clint catches his appearance in a mirror one night and he hardly recognizes the man staring back at him; thick, purple smudges sit under his eyes and his skin looks sallow, pulling too tight at his cheekbones.

That same night, Clint sits at the end of his bed and thinks about the poetry book locked away in the drawer and doesn't move until the sun rises.

* * *

At 120-hours 51-minutes and 35-seconds the Avengers are called into action. He pulls on his uniform in a motion that is purely mechanical and pulls his quiver onto his back.

He dawns his sunglasses to hide the bruising under his eyes and tries to ignore the way his legs quiver and the uncomfortable thumping in his chest.

They all stare at him when he arrives for the briefing and he wonders for a moment if this isn't and intervention, wonders if there is a mission at all.

There is and suddenly Clint is at the top of a skyscraper, picking off a horde of 'he-doesn't-even-know-what's because he can't even remember how he got here, let alone decipher what those _things_ are.

He pulls back and releases, finding a rhythm, but is slow to change his arrowheads correctly. He forgets the amount of clicks needed for the acid tips and confuses the electric tips combination for that of his generic explosives.

His brain feels muddled and the small amount of adrenaline that had been sent coursing through him at the beginning of the mission is already retreating.

The archer narrowly avoids a spray of energy-based shots, twisting his fatigued body out of the way – it works, sure, but no sooner than he's avoided the first one, a second and third are upon him.

A few acrobatic moves see him safely across the roof but one wrong move, one wrong step and he gets clipped on the shoulder – the shot burns and he stumbles and the next thing he knows his foot is landing on empty air.

* * *

In another time, another world, it goes like this.

The God of Mischief's spear impales Phil Coulson while his back is turned; it rips through bone and muscles, cartilage and sinew, exiting through his chest before being brutally ripped out. He manages to shoot the bastard once before passing out, his lasts thoughts resting on Clint.

When he wakes up the doctors tell him he is lucky. The spear had missed his heart by an inch. One small inch. Lucky.

When he wakes up again Clint tells him he is stupid. There are unshed tears in the man's eyes when he reaches to grasp his hand like it's all that's tethering him to the ground. The thought of what his death would have done to the man he loves is enough to make Phil's throat constrict painfully. Stupid.

Clint sits with him everyday for hours on end until, eventually, someone ushers him away. Phil falls asleep shortly after those moments but every time he wakes up, Clint is there again.

Clint helps him through physical therapy and in those rare moments in which Phil gets frustrated, when he tells Clint to stop wasting his time helping his pathetic ass up and down the therapy stairs, Clint huffs and reminds him of for better and worse and forever.

For three months they practically live in the infirmary and things get a bit stale; Tony realizes this and brings them two spanking new StarkPhones. Clint doesn't even complain about his being purple and he even ignores Tony's remark about his overabundance of saved messages from Phil and how creepy that makes him. He ignores it because Tony seemed to know that Phil is a sucker for Angry Birds and Clint loves the way the man chews his lip when he plays it.

When Phil is released Clint settles them into their quarters in Stark Tower and doesn't complain – not even once – when Phil can't decide where he wants his memorabilia to go.

A week later Clint is hunched over a pot of soup, watching Phil sleep lightly on the couch, when Steve hands him a package.

"This came for you." He says as he towels his wet hair. Clint doesn't remember ordering anything but doesn't waste much time thinking about it. He rips it open and can barely contain his excitement – much to Steve's incredible embarrassment – when he sees what's inside.

Clint lets Phil wake up on his own accord, and when he finally does, he watches in silence, a small grin fixed on his features, as the groggy man takes in the bowl of soup and the huge box set sitting next to it.

Phil nearly cries and it's all somewhat embarrassing for him with Captain America standing off to the side, sputtering about how stupid he looks on the cover and how he can't believe anyone would _want_ the set, but for Clint it's one of his finest moments.

That night Clint and Phil gather everyone together – Tony, Pepper, Bruce, Thor, Natasha, Steve – and they watch the documentary. Steve regales them with stories from behind the scenes and they laugh. Phil curls next to him and Clint's chest tightens.

Phil's recovery progresses, albeit somewhat sluggishly, and he is eventually put back to work. His office is just as he left it, save for his old poetry book with the post-it on top – _glad your back_. _Hill._ – sitting atop his desk. It feels incredible even though he spends most his time at a desk but even from there he can watch Clint and the team's backs.

And he's glad for it because the inevitable moment in which Clint does something stupid – jumps off another damn building – and ends up in the infirmary.

Clint's pupils are uneven and Phil knows he's hurting but they're alive and for the moment, okay; Clint's glossy eyes soften when Phil takes the seat next to him, book in hand. Phil licks his thumb as he turns through the pages, something Clint always teases him about, and clears his throat.

"Once more into the fray –" he starts. One of the archer's a favorite.

A small smirk graces Clint's feature and already his eyes are drifting shut. Despite the pain in his head and the pain of the last few months everything feels perfect.

* * *

In another time, another world, this is how it goes.

This is neither that time, nor that world.

* * *

The first thing Clint feels is a small amount of relief and there's not even enough time to consider how absolutely fucked up that is. There's no time to consider it because the second thought follows quickly and it sounds exactly like Phil.

"_Into the last good fight I'll ever know –"_

Clint closes his eyes as he falls –_ "live and die on this day …" _and thinks about how differently things could have gone.

"… _live and die on this day."_

* * *

One more to go - I promise you, the angst fest is coming to an end.

If anyone is wondering what the team has been doing while all this has been going on I promise you'll see in the final chapter. It will be a bit of a long one as it will go back to the beginning. I promise you they haven't all just been twiddling there thumbs while poor Clint has been suffering.

Thanks for sticking with me. Every comment has been most appreciated and had been an inspiration.


End file.
